


On the Shores of Avalon

by shadowofrazia



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 1914, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Atlantis: The Lost Empire - Freeform, M/M, Minor Character Death, Royal!Merlin, Violence, minor homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 17:15:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowofrazia/pseuds/shadowofrazia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For his entire life, Arthur Pendragon has dreamt of finding the Isle of Avalon. It all seems hopeless until a man named Gaius de Boron hands Arthur the key to keeping his dream alive. With The Book of Avalon and a ragtag crew, Arthur soon finds himself in a world he could have only imagined. But when Arthur meets Myrddin, the strange prince of Avalon, he soon has to decide if he’s willing to leave behind everything he’s ever known to keep Avalon’s magic alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Shores of Avalon

**Author's Note:**

> A quadrillion thanks to my beta [madmaddieek](http://madmaddieek.livejournal.com/) for all of her help! Without her, this probably would have made much less sense. The translation/ language sites I used were supplied by [this page.](http://nyxelestia.dreamwidth.org/26373.html)

 

_Prologue_

“ _Myrddin! Myrddin, this way!_ ”

Myrddin, too small and too weak to fight against the throngs of people running around him, reaches for his father’s hand. “ _Fæder_! _Fæder!”_

Behind him, something explodes. He hears the roars of dragons overhead and wonders why, after all this time, Lady Nimueh would do _this_. He turns back, sees Kilgharrah and his mate silhouetted against the flames and the smoke; hears the High Priestesses chanting furiously. He knows, even as young as he is, they are no match for Lady Nimueh. There’s a reason she was appointed High Sorceress.

Balinor reaches for his son’s hand, grasps it momentarily, before the area around the two clears. Myrddin can hear his heartbeat in his ears, can taste the fear in his throat, as he watches his father tilt his head back, eyes glowing a brilliant, terrifying gold, and roar in a language that’s both familiar and strange.

The air around them freezes; Myrddin can see his breath in the air, despite it being a warm night.  He watches his breath evaporate as their lives burn to the ground around them.

“ _Myrddin,_ _min bearn, bist hæghál!_ ” Myrddin feels his mother’s arms wrap around him. Her body protects him from the light and the cold, shields him from his father’s glowing eyes. “ _Bist hæghál,”_ she whispers.

_Myrddin, my son, you’re safe. You’re safe._

And then everything is still. The island is quiet, and Nimueh and Myrddin’s father are gone.

**~*~**

_London 1914_

Arthur awakes to the sound of a letter hitting the floor beneath his letterbox. His notes are sticking to his face, and his glasses are digging into the bridge of his nose.

“What—?” Confused, he yawns, straightens his glasses, and goes to pick up the letter. It’s addressed to him—surprising, as there’s been more than one occasion of him getting other people’s mail—and doesn’t have a stamp. He frowns and tears it open.

“Dear Mr. Pendragon, you have missed your scheduled appointment. Because this is the third missed appointment of its kind, you have been denied—" Arthur swears loudly, and throws the letter behind him in his haste to reach his briefcase.

He’s sprinted through the halls of the museum before, but not like this. He’s sure he has ink smeared up the side of his face, and he knows his tie is skewed, but it doesn’t matter. This is more important to him than his dignity. 

Up ahead, he sees his uncle—his _boss_ —leaving his office. He has his hat on his head and his cane in hand.

“Agravaine—Mr. du Bois!” Arthur races down the hallway after his uncle. “Just a moment, sir! Wait, please!”

Agravaine stops, looking mildly irritated. “Arthur, this is hardly professional,” he says as Arthur slides to a stop in front of him.

“My presentation—I thought—I was told it was at 4:30, but I got a letter saying it was—“

“Your presentation was scheduled for 3:45, Arthur, and you missed it.” Agravaine straightens his hat.

“Could we possibly reschedule? I’ve put a lot of work into this—my _family_ has put a lot of work into this. I need to give this presentation. If you’d listen, you’d see—“

Agravaine holds up his hand. “It’s fantasy, Arthur,” he says gently, “a bedtime story; nothing more, nothing less.”

“It’s not fantasy!”

“Arthur!” snaps Agravaine. “This is my final decision on the subject. If you bring it up again, I’ll be forced to ask you to resign.”

“Uncle, if you refuse to listen to me, I’ll be forced to resign,” says Arthur, pleased to note that his voice barely shakes.

Agravaine sighs. His cane slips through his hand until the tip of it taps gently against the floor. “Go home, Arthur. Forget about Avalon and your fairytales. Get some sleep, focus on _real_ history.”

“Sir!” Arthur shouts to Agravaine’s retreating back. The door slams shut and, defeated, Arthur goes to gather his things.

Arthur’s office light is still on when he gets back. His notes—the ones he failed to grab in his rush to the upper levels—are scattered across his desk. In the center of it all is the photograph of him and his mother standing in the middle of an African desert, a herd of elephants behind them. They both look happy, and Arthur smiles sadly at the image. That trip was the last they’d gone on together.

While Arthur was growing up, his mother told him stories. She told him stories about Chinese emperors, and people in the Americas. She told him about the men and women in Egypt, and about the overwhelming height of the trees in the rainforests of South America. But most of all, she told him stories of Avalon. They were stories of impossible things, stories of dragons and magic and disappearing islands.

It was her obsession and her downfall.

He tucks the image into his bag with his other things, turns off the office light, and locks the door behind him.

It’s storming when Arthur gets outside. He curses, shoves his bag beneath his jacket, and feels lucky that he only lives a few blocks away. Still, by the time he makes it to his flat, his hair is dripping and he’s relieved he spent the extra money on a nice coat.

“Mr. Pendragon,” says a smoky voice from just outside the door of his building.

Arthur turns, a hand on the doorknob, water dripping down his face. The woman steps out from the shadows and, beneath the umbrella, she reminds him of a character he once read in a mystery novel. He blinks slowly, tries not to focus on the red of her lips or the kohl lining her eyes.

“Huh?” he says. He shakes his head. “I mean, yes. I’m Arthur Pendragon.”

“Yes, Arthur,” she says patiently. “I know. My name is Morgause Lothian. My employer has a sort of…proposition for you; I have been sent to fetch you.”

“Tell your _employer_ to get in contact with me personally,” says Arthur, reaching once more for the door. “Have a nice night, Ms. Lothian.”  

“It’s about Avalon,” says Morgause, smiling when she knows she has Arthur’s attention. Her smile is predatory and Arthur involuntarily finds himself taking a step back. A car pulls up beside them. Morgause gestures to the nearest door. “Shall we?”

Arthur stands in the rain, arms wrapped around the bag of papers beneath his coat. His hair is dripping into the collar of his shirt and he’s freezing, but the only thing he can think to say as the woman climbs elegantly into the car is: “I’ve got to feed my cat.”

*

“You will not address my employer directly,” says Morgause, leading a still-damp Arthur up the staircase of a large home. “You will not ask questions. You will not speak unless spoken to. Do you understand?”

“I—what?”

Morgause rolls her eyes and pushes open a heavy door. “Just try not to drip too much on the carpeting,” she says blithely, and shoves Arthur through the doorway.

The only source of light in the room is a fireplace on the wall furthest from Arthur, who continues to clutch his bag to his chest and decides he’s a bit tired of dramatic lighting.

“Hello?” he calls, stepping further into the quiet room.

A head pops around the bookshelf and a pair of magnified eyes blinks owlishly at Arthur. “What do you want?”

“I, uh, Ms. Lothian brought me; she said you wanted to speak to me.”

“I told her to bring you by on Friday,” says the man impatiently. He ducks back behind the bookshelf.

“Sir,” says Arthur, “it is Friday.”

“Is it?” The man reappears. “I must have lost track of time. Gaius de Boron.”

It takes Arthur a moment to realize the man is introducing himself. “Arthur Pendragon,” he says belatedly. Gaius beams.

“Ygraine’s son! I knew your mother, taught her when she was going through university. She was very gifted…I was sorry to hear she died.”

Arthur looks down. “She’s the reason I chose to study ancient languages,” he says. “I needed to know if she was right.”

“And that,” says Gaius mysteriously, “is exactly why I brought you here.”

Gaius leads Arthur to a pair of armchairs arranged before the fireplace. Arthur pulls his case from beneath his jacket, and while the case itself is a bit damp, the papers inside are as dry as can be. Gaius hands him a cup of tea, and the first sip immediately warms him up.

“Tell me what you know of Avalon,” requests Gaius, tea carefully balanced in his hands. “Everything you know.”

Arthur blinks, momentarily stunned. Then, glancing around the room, he asks, “Have you got an easel by any chance?”

This is the presentation Arthur has been preparing ever since he can remember. All his time and effort – the weeks he spent translating texts, the hours he spent drawing out maps–is finally worth it.

“There’s a book, _Sé Boc ap Æppelcynn—The Book of Avalon_. It’s believed to hold the key to what happened to Avalon and how one might be able to find it,” says Arthur some time later, gesturing at a detailed drawing of the book. “According to my research, the book was last seen somewhere in Russia, but it hasn’t been seen since around 1850—”

“Considering you’ve been speaking for the past 45 minutes and that’s the first inaccuracy I’ve heard, it’s clear you’ve done your research,” interrupts Gaius.

“It’s not inaccurate,” Arthur says, wondering why Gaius insisted on a presentation if he’s already familiar with the topic. “The last accounts of the book come from east of Saint Petersburg.”

“The last _public_ accounts,” says Gaius. He stands and walks to the bookshelf he’d been behind earlier that evening. “A few years back, I sent an expedition team to Russia—where did that blasted thing go? Ah, yes, here it is.” Gaius walks around the bookshelf, holding a parcel. 

“Is that what I think it is?” breathes Arthur, reaching out to take the package from Gaius’ hand. He opens it slowly, reveling in the heavy feeling of the book in his hands.

And there it is. Arthur has been looking at drawings of this book for years. He’s dreamt about it. The triple spiral on the cover is so ingrained into his memory that, even as his vision blurs, Arthur knows exactly what it looks like.

“ _Gaius_.” He falls into the chair. “How did you get this? Do you know what we could do with this book? We could find Avalon! We could change the world!”

“It’s gibberish,” argues Gaius. “I’ve gone through it.”

Arthur snaps his head up. “It’s _not_ ,” he says. “It’s a dead language. I’ve studied dead languages for years, this dead language, to be specific. It’s not gibberish to me.”

“Then what do you suppose we do with it?” asks Gaius, sitting back in his chair. “Take it to the museum? I’m sure Master du Bois would be _thrilled_ to listen now you have proof.”

“He wouldn’t. He’d think it was a fake.” Arthur’s heart sinks as he says, “Gaius, this journal— _Avalon_ —it’s my mother’s legacy. I have to find it. I need to know if it’s real. I’ll swim or walk or rent a boat, but I need to—“

Gaius grins. “I think I may be able to help with that last one,” he says, pulling a stack of folders from a nearby drawer. “I’ve got a team. They’re the best in the business—engineers, navigators, geologists, and munitions specialists. We’ve even got a blacksmith,” he explains. “They’re the team that found the journal. And all we need now is someone fluent in gibberish.”

Arthur blinks.

“So,” asks Gaius, pushing the folders across the coffee table. “What do you say?”

~*~

Arthur’s not sure what makes him say yes. Maybe it’s the canceled meetings, or the insults, or the lack of promotions he’s experienced after over five years at the museum.

Or maybe, it’s the way his mother smiles at him, exhausted but pleased, from the photo he’s tucked carefully into _The Book of Avalon_.

Even after he agrees, Arthur is still surprised to find himself on a loading dock, in a part of London he’s never been. He doesn’t want to think about how early it is.  

“You! Language boy!” shouts Morgause, looking considerably more terrifying with a gun resting against her hip. “Either help us load up or get the hell out of the way.”

Arthur nods awkwardly, then picks up a stray box.

“You’re not going to want that one,” says a dark-haired woman with sharp eyes and a startlingly beautiful face. Arthur remembers her file. Her name is Morgana.

“What? Why not?” He shifts the box. “It’s not too heavy.”

“It’s full of C4,” says Morgana, “but I suppose if it’s _not too heavy_ , you’re welcome to carry it.” She smirks, and Arthur’s sure she can tell he’s panicking about whether or not dropping the box will destroy them and the dock.

“What do I do?” he asks frantically. Morgana laughs.

“You carry it onto the ship,” she answers, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“ _What_?”

“My god, you’re hopeless,” says Morgana. She rolls her eyes and sets down her own box before impatiently taking the box from Arthur’s hands. “Let’s hope your language skills are better than your sense of humor, or we’re all doomed. Take that box and don’t fall behind.”

The ship is one of the most complicated Arthur’s been on. After Morgana releases him hours later, it takes Arthur another half-hour to find his quarters.

The room has a bunk bed on one wall and a twin pushed against the other. The twin bed has a large bag thrown on top of it, but both bunks are free.

Arthur lies on the bottom bunk and opens _The Book of Avalon_. It’s been less than a week since the conversation with Gaius and Arthur’s barely had a quiet moment to himself.

“Did you know you’re muttering to yourself?”

Arthur sits up so quickly he cracks his head against the bed above his. “Ow, shit!” he exclaims, grabbing the back of his head.

Almost immediately, the man who had interrupted Arthur’s reading is sitting on his bed, hands carding through Arthur’s hair.

“What are you—?”

“Stay still!” demands the man. “The name’s Lancelot du Loc, but you can call me Lance, if you’d like. Everyone else does. I’m the physician on this ship. Stay still, you may have a concussion.”

“Or not,” says a gruff voice. “Pretty Boy probably just wants to run his hands through those locks, Rapunzel.”

Arthur flushes, reaches up to feel the lump he knows is forming at the back of his head. “I’m fine.”

“Bit more than that, I think,” leers the man.

“ _Enough_ , Gwaine.” Lancelot prods at Arthur’s head a few more times before standing. “You should be fine as long as you don’t do anything strenuous.”

“Because you’ll die if you do,” says Gwaine. When Lancelot scowls, Gwaine sighs and holds out a hand. “You’re the linguist, yeah?”

Arthur tries not to wince at the strength of Gwaine’s handshake. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with the back of his free hand. “If you don’t mind,” he says a bit awkwardly. “I was translating.”

Gwaine raises his eyebrows and releases Arthur’s hand. “Right, you’re the one leading us round on this trip. Best get back to it, Rapunzel.”

Lancelot laughs loudly— _like he’s got any right to be laughing at names_ , thinks Arthur rather bitterly –and throws his medical bag onto the bed above Arthur’s. “Gwen says dinner should be ready in an hour.”

“Oh wow, I can’t wait to see what Cookie’s put together for us tonight,” says Gwaine sarcastically, following Lancelot from the room. “Maybe it’ll be as good as the time he tried to serve us deep fried lard.”

His voice trails off, leaving Arthur to wonder what he’s got himself into. 

*

It’s two hours after dinner when Arthur’s called to the bridge. When he arrives, the others are sitting in uncomfortable looking chairs, staring expectantly at him. Gwen, who he met at dinner, sends him a small smile.

“Mr. Pendragon,” says Uther, flashing what he probably thinks is a welcoming smile. “Welcome. We were just talking about you.”

“All good things, I hope,” responds Arthur nervously.

Uther de Troyes is a legend, both in archaeology and the military. Arthur met him once as a child, at an important dinner with his mother. Uther was younger then, but no less stern, and the sword Uther wore at his hip fascinated Arthur.

Arthur imagines him as a mountain, unmovable and dangerous.

“Of course,” says Uther. “I was just telling them of the presentation you’re about to give on Avalon.”

“Presentation?”

“Oh, yes.” Uther walks over to the only spare seat on the side of the room. “You don’t expect us to go in blind, do you?”

Arthur stands uncomfortably at the front of the room. At the museum, he longed to present his research, but never got the chance. As a result, Arthur feels rather nervous standing in front of this crowd. He glances around and notices he’s the only one without a gun.

His free hand finds the ring hanging around his neck. He’s worn it since his last year of university, since his mother’s death. Arthur rubs the ring gently and prays for luck.

“Right.” He begins. “As you probably know, my name is Arthur Pendragon. I’m a linguist—historical linguist, if you will—who has studied _Sé Éaland ap Æppelcynn_.” At their blank looks, Arthur hastens to add, “That is, The Isle of Avalon—“

“Yes,” interrupts Uther lazily. “We know what you’ve studied.”

“Of course.” Arthur exhales. “Now, there are no maps of Avalon, or _to_ Avalon, for that matter, but this book has everything we need to know.”

“Except maps,” snorts Morgana, blowing a stream of cigarette smoke in Arthur’s general direction.

Squashing the urge to question why the demolitions expert _smokes_ , Arthur says, “Actually, I’ve drawn one!”

Morgana raises her eyebrows, impressed, and Arthur gives himself a mental pat on the back. The map had taken him a good three nights to draw up, but he knows the map is correct. He’s always been good at maps.

“There’s a lake at the center of Avalon, and on that lake is what I presume to be the capital city. This ship can take us to the land surrounding the lake, but we’ll have to travel by foot to the city itself.”

“But our supplies!” protests Gwaine. 

“Well, I suppose you’ll have to carry them, won’t you?” Uther says, staring hard at Gwaine until he slumps against his seat, defeated.

“Er, yes. The journey inland should only take a day and a half with minimal supplies, if we keep a steady pace.”

“If _The_ _Isle of Avalon_ is so mysterious and lost, why is it so easy to get to?” asks Gwen. Beside her, Lancelot nods in agreement.

“Avalon is an island of magic, so its defenses are also made of magic. This journal has given us a clear route to Avalon that would have been impossible to find otherwise,” Arthur says. He pushes his glasses up his nose. “Even the Lake of Avalon is protected by magic, but I’ve found a path—the one I’ve drawn out—that leads to it. The other leads you around the island until you eventually die.”

“Oh, lovely.”

Arthur unrolls the map. “If my translations are correct—and they are—there’s a woman they call The Lady of the Lake, who guards the capital and the royals of Avalon. We should be alright, though, because we’re only exploring.”

Arthur’s so caught up in his maps and translations that he doesn’t see the guilty glances exchanged between Gwen and Lancelot.

*

“Commander,” says Arthur later. “I didn’t want to mention it during my presentation, but I thought you should know something.”

“Yes, Pendragon?” Uther says wearily.

“This book is missing three pages,” Arthur says, flipping toward the center of the book. “I have reason to think the pages are important.”

Uther sets his cup down and steeples his fingers, concerned. “Three pages?”

“Yes, sir,” Arthur responds.

“When we found _Sé Boc ap Æppelcynn,_ ” says Uther, positively mangling the pronunciation, “We made a point not to handle it too much—didn’t know how well it’d hold up, you see? If the pages are missing, I suppose it has something to do with the original writer rather than my expedition team.”

“Right,” Arthur says. “Sorry to bother you, sir.”

That night, Arthur reads by torchlight, propping the book open on his knees as he writes his notes. There’s a feeling in his stomach he can’t shake. He writes a note in the margin of his notebook and decides to come back to it later.

~*~

“Pendragon! Pen— _for God’s sake!_ Arthur!”

Arthur sits up very quickly, cracking his forehead against the bunk above his for the third time in as many days. He swears, groping around for his glasses. Morgause stands above him. In the background, Arthur can hear a commotion.

“Get dressed: we have a situation.”

If Uther was scary before, it’s nothing compared to how he looks when dressed in full military garb, sword at his hip. The scar on his forehead seems to be especially prominent. When Uther scowls at him, Arthur wonders if it’s too late to learn to salute properly.

“Sir,” says Morgause, “I’ve brought Pendragon. Bloody kid could sleep through anything.” She shoves Arthur forward and leaves the deck.

“Want to tell me what we’re dealing with here?”

Though the sun hasn’t quite set, the sky grows dark quickly. If he squints, Arthur can see the choppy water ahead. He can see the foam caused by the waves and somewhere behind the ship, something roars.

“We must be getting close,” says Arthur, flipping frantically through the book that hasn’t left his side. “There’s a legend—well, there are reports—that there’s more than one thing protecting Avalon. The Lady of the Lake protects the lake itself, but there’s—“

“Get _on_ with it, Pendragon!” Uther grabs the railing as the ship rocks violently.

“It’s a sea serpent. Old Norse mythology calls it _Jormungand_ , but they’ve come up in many different myths. Olaus Magnus described it as having ‘sharp black scales and flaming red eyes.’” Arthur keeps flipping through the book. “It comes up in the Bible as Leviathan. Chinese dragons in particular are—“

“If I wanted a history lesson, I would have asked for one!” shouts Uther. “How do we kill it?!”

“Um, well, in most cases it’s never really killed. In the Norse myths, the final battle is _predicted_ to occur and—“ At the furious look on Uther’s face, Arthur quickly says, “Even without myths, it’s generally well known that fire and water are opposites. The sea serpent is a creature of water, so fire should at least scare it off.”

“You’re sure?”

“Relatively.”

“Good enough,” Uther concludes. He presses the intercom button. “Elena! Tell Miss le Fay she gets to play with her toys.”

“Oh, she’s going to have a _field day_ ,” says Elena’s gleeful voice through the speaker.

It happens very quickly. There are a number of explosions—Arthur resists hiding beneath a desk, but doesn’t resist covering his ears—and then they’re ordered to exit the ship. Arthur wraps his things in multiple layers of clothing before shoving them into his knapsack and climbing onto the boat.

Despite how much he traveled both with and without his mum, Arthur has never been one for boats. Ships? Ships he can handle, but boats? The only reason Arthur doesn’t kiss the shore when they all clamber from the tiny boats is because he’s far too busy vomiting on it.

“That is _disgusting_ ,” says Gwaine. His hair is wet, but Morgana lets him rest his head in her lap anyway.

Lancelot sits beside Arthur, hand on his back and water bottle at the ready. “He can’t help it. Anyway, I remember the first time you traveled by submarine.”

“ _Enough_ of your bickering,” snaps Uther with the weariness of a parent scolding his children. He throws a large bag onto the beach near Gwen. “We’ll make camp here for tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll leave at first light. Pendragon, once you’ve finished making a fool of yourself, figure out where we’re meant to be going. If you get us killed, I’ll take your kneecaps. Are we clear?”

Arthur swallows shakily as he sits up, but manages to croak out, “Crystal, sir.”

He works by firelight while the others laugh over their dinners. He pretends he’s at university again. People hadn’t spoken to him much there, either. At least at university, he had his coursework to study. Here, he’s just got maps and a book about a civilization that died out centuries ago.

“They’re not all bad,” says Gwen, walking over to where he’s sitting. She sets a plate of food on the log between her and Arthur, who doesn’t touch it. 

“Still not feeling too great,” he says, mostly to his book. “Anyway, I’ve got to—”

“They don’t blame you,” Gwen says. “About the giant snake, I mean.”

“Don’t they?” Arthur keeps writing out his translation. “I should have known; there’s a great drawing of it a few pages back.”

“Oh, well, I guess it’s your fault after all.” Gwen laughs at the betrayed look Arthur sends her way. “Arthur, I’m _joking_. We all knew what we signed up for. We knew Avalon wasn’t just a boat ride away.”

It makes him feel a bit better. Gwen sits with him for a few more moments, and then pats Arthur’s knee before standing. He watches her walk over to where Lancelot’s laughing with Gwaine and Morgana beside the fire.

Morgause and Uther are nowhere to be seen.

*

Arthur wakes first the following morning. The ground around him is wet, but Arthur, the book, and the heavy blue cloak someone draped over him are dry. When he thanks Gwen for it, she looks at him as if he’s lost his mind.

“Where would I get a cloak?” she asks.

The others give him hell for it, but the cloak is warm and dry, so Arthur keeps it wrapped around his body. It’s far lighter than he expected. Arthur decides it’s worth being called _princess_ by Gwaine all day when they end up walking through a downpour and Arthur is the only one who stays dry.

“If I wanted rain, I would’ve stayed in London,” Morgana says, twisting her long hair to release a considerable amount of water.

“We’re actually north of London,” says Arthur. “Why would you expect better weather?”

“Because it’s a _magical_ island,” she says. “At the very least, they should be able to control the rain.”

“But that would make this much less of an adventure,” says Gwaine too cheerfully.

Morgana shoves past Gwaine, throwing her hair over her shoulder. “You’re not the one dealing with matches.”  

They walk for a few more hours before setting up camp. This time, as they choke down soggy sandwiches and weak tea, the others let Arthur join them around the fire. Arthur barely touches his food, but at least he learns a lot.

He learns that Gwen and Lancelot became close after her father and brother died and Lancelot took Gwen in. They leave it at that, but Arthur’s sure the only reason Lancelot hasn’t proposed is because Gwen is seventeen years old and Lancelot is a gentleman.

Morgana offers up very little except: “It’s hard not to get into explosives growing up with my family.”

Gwaine just shrugs and says he got into science to piss his father off, and stuck with it because it was more straightforward to him than religion. Arthur wants to ask him more, but decides not to when Gwaine’s expression quickly closes off.

“What about you, Goldilocks?” asks Gwaine. “Tell us about yourself.”

“You know about me.”

“No, we know about your work,” says Lancelot. “And your cat.”

“What about family? Do you have a wife?”

“Just me, I’m afraid. I spend an embarrassing amount of time reading dead languages and—” _I’m not particularly attracted to the fairer sex_. “—And that’s not particularly attractive to most women.”

“You’re a bucket of laughs,” snorts Gwaine.

“You asked,” mutters Arthur. “Anyway, other than that, the most exciting thing about me is my aversion to shellfish.”

That night, Arthur stays up after the others have gone to bed. He unrolls the map across his lap and studies it.

They should be to the Lake of Avalon by tomorrow afternoon. After all this time, Arthur will be able to prove Avalon is real.

_But what if it isn’t?_ says a small voice in the back of Arthur’s mind. What if everything Arthur’s ever studied, has ever cared about, turns out to be a fairytale after all?                                   

Arthur shakes his head and holds the map down against the wind.

*

The next day is sunny and warm enough that Arthur feels comfortable folding the cloak around the journal and tucking it into his bag. He carries the map as he explains the route to Uther, who can’t seem to understand why they’ve got to go _through_ a waterfall.

They reach the waterfall around midday. The air around them smells of the forest and last night’s rain, and Arthur can’t remember being so happy.

That’s not to say he isn’t exhausted. His work had kept him up well into the night, and Arthur knows he hasn’t been eating enough. He tried at breakfast, but had a difficult time forcing food past the knot of anxiety in his throat. 

He’s bone-weary and nervous, but he’s never been happier.

Arthur leads the way into the cave. They all become drenched in the process—behind him, Arthur hears both Morgana and Gwaine curse.

“So now what?” asks Morgause as the group stares at the wet wall of the cave.

Arthur presses his hand against the stone, wills it to disappear, wills it to do _something_. This can’t be it. It was meant to be a tunnel. It was meant to lead to Avalon.

“I could blow it up,” offers Morgana.

“I don’t understand. It has to be here.”

“Well, it isn’t,” says Uther. “It’s nice to know this was a colossal waste of our time.” When he turns to leave the cave, the others follow obediently.

And Arthur? Well, Arthur wants to cry.

He shivers, wishing the breeze wasn’t so cold. _It’s hard to accept your life’s work is a farce when you’re too cold_ , Arthur thinks bitterly. Then, it occurs to him: the breeze is coming from the wrong side of the cave.

He stands, opens his mouth to call for the others, and then yelps when a hand wraps around his ankle. Arthur tries to stay calm as he hits the water. His mother always said panicking made everything worse.

“ _Arthur Pendragon_ ,” says a woman’s voice. “ _Come with me, Arthur Pendragon._ ” Her skin is pale and her long, brown hair flows around her head like a halo. “ _Come, Arthur. You will be happy here.”_

She pulls him deeper into the lake. Frantically, Arthur kicks at her, but her grip is no longer the only one pulling him away from the surface.

He sinks and sinks and sinks and wonders if this is what dying is. He wonders if her beautiful, haunting face is the last thing he’ll ever see. _That wouldn’t be too bad_ , he thinks. At least he’s not alone.

Then suddenly, Arthur’s lungs fill with air and he rolls onto his hands and knees, coughing up bile and lake water.

Everything hurts.

“ _Give him space! Get back!_ ”

Arthur’s sure he’s dreaming. He turns slowly, only to meet a pair of blue eyes, wide with curiosity.

“It’s alright,” says the man in the Druid tongue, peacefully raising his hands. “We won’t hurt you.”

“Who are you?” asks Arthur, the foreign words coming easily to his mouth. “Where am I?”

“I’m Myrddin Emrys,” says the man. “You’re in Avalon.”

Arthur nods blankly. “Myrddin…yes, wonderful,” he says, and then very promptly passes out.

~*~

Arthur awakes alone in a comfortable bed. For a moment, he panics, wondering if he’s dead—or worse, if it’d all been a dream.

A door at the far end of the dimly lit room opens, and Myrddin walks in, dressed in a simple tunic. In his arms, he carries a bundle Arthur recognizes as his belongings toward the bed. When Arthur warily moves back, Myrddin sighs and carries the things to the low table near the fireplace instead.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says calmly, taking Arthur’s glasses from the top of the pile. He stays near the table. “You understand me, don’t you? You understand what I’m saying?”

Arthur nods, and when Myrddin walks slowly over to the bed, Arthur allows him to stand close enough to hand him the pair of glasses.

“I’m not sure what these are, but Freya said you were wearing them when you fell in.”

Arthur puts the glasses on and sees Myrddin’s tunic is far less simple than he originally assumed. It’s lined in silver thread and the cuffs are embroidered beautifully with Druid knots and symbols. It’s a tunic worthy of royalty, and Arthur wonders whose bed he’s resting in.

“Freya?” he asks.

“Most people call her The Lady of the Lake,” explains Myrddin. He sits at the end of the bed and swings his legs up onto the mattress, seemingly unaware of Arthur’s discomfort as he crosses his legs. “She’s really very nice. She apologized for—“

“Trying to drown me?”

“It’s her job to protect us,” Myrddin says sharply, the kindness gone from his eyes. “Your _group_ is not trustworthy, but she did not intend to hurt you. Do you remember what she said to you?”

Arthur thinks back. The words are a bit difficult to recall—he was drowning after all—but her voice was distinctive. “She told me to come with her,” he recalls slowly. “She said I would be happy there.”

A strange look crosses Myrddin’s face. “Were you unhappy?”

“Considerably,” says Arthur dryly. “I was being drowned.”

“She did apologize.” Myrddin sighs, “I don’t want to argue. I actually came to ask if you would like to join us for dinner. We found your friends. They were concerned enough to react defensively when we approached.””

“They don’t understand your language,” says Arthur. “There’s a journal in my bag—shit, it’s probably ruined by now. I’m here to translate, nothing more.”

“You’re lying.” Myrddin smiles and stands. “You care more about this than any of those people you’re with. Come. It’s a rather long walk.” 

Despite Arthur’s long rest, he’s still exhausted enough that he allows Myrddin to support him on the walk down to the great hall. Arthur’s stomach drops when he realizes how much he enjoys Myrddin’s warm presence at his side.

The others are seated around the heavy oak table when they enter the hall. Gwen sends him a relieved smile and waves as Myrddin guides Arthur to a seat. He knows the team doesn’t miss the hand Myrddin trails across Arthur’s back before moving to sit beside him.

The woman at the head of the table sits with her eyes closed. Her brown hair is lightly streaked with grey, and she smiles when Myrddin sits. “ _Min bearn_ ,” she says, placing a hand over Myrddin’s. She turns to look at Arthur, keeping her eyes closed. “ _You are the one they call Cyning Draca?”_

“What is she saying?” asks Uther before Arthur has a chance to respond.

“ _Yes,”_ says Arthur to Hunith. To Uther, he responds, “She asked my name.”

“It sounded like she said king,” says Morgana. “Hiding something from us, Arthur?”

“My surname actually means ‘head dragon,’” Arthur explains. “I don’t think they have a direct translation.”

Gwaine and Morgana glance at each other. Arthur is sure they have a million comments on the tip of their tongues, but Uther silences them all with a stern stare.

“We’re glad to see you’re alright,” he says. “Now, these _people_ have been trying to tell us something for hours. It would be wonderful if you could tell us what it is.”

Arthur murmurs this to Myrddin, who laughs.

“ _You’ll speak with the queen after dinner. Everything will be explained then_.”

Uther’s grip on his goblet tightens noticeably when Arthur translates the response.

The rest of their dinner is quiet. Arthur, realizing how hungry he is, focuses on eating. He listens to the conversations around him, and occasionally pauses to speak to Myrddin. The woman at the head of the table stays silent, aware of everything around her even as her eyes stay closed. Every now and then, Myrddin glances anxiously at her.

After dinner, full of food and just a bit of wine, all Arthur wants to do is sleep. Myrddin stands to help the woman to the throne room and glances back to be sure the others are following. Arthur walks beside Lancelot and Gwen, who hugs him tightly.

“We thought you died,” she admits. “Then a group of strange men showed up, but we couldn’t understand what they were saying. Eventually, we had no choice but to hope they knew where you were.”

“Well, that, and we didn’t know how to get back,” says Morgana, walking past. Gwen scowls.

“Yes, but we would never have left without you.”

“I’m sure,” says Arthur blithely, walking through the doors into the large, stone room.

The woman sits in an ornate wood throne at the back of the room. Myrddin stands behind her throne and smiles when Arthur meets his gaze. When they’ve all entered the room, the heavy doors close behind them, and the woman speaks:

“ _Ic béo nemning Hunith Emrys, wif ap Balinor Emrys, Cyning ap Æppelcynn; and mordor ap Myrddin Emrys, bearn ap Balinor Emrys, Æðeling ap Æppelcynn.”_

“She’s Hunith Emrys, Queen of Avalon,” translates Arthur for the others. “She’s ruling in place of the king, her husband Balinor Emrys. Myrddin is her son, Prince of Avalon.”

“ _You are not welcome here_ ,” continues Hunith. Her voice is soft, but Arthur sees Gwen move a bit closer to Lancelot.

“ _Not welcome?”_ asks Arthur, confused. “ _Why?_ ”

“ _You, Cyning Draca, know little of your companions. They are dark people.”_

“What is it, Arthur?”

Arthur shakes his head, which feels rather clouded, and turns to face the others. “They want us to leave.”

“Nonsense!” says Uther. “You’ve got to reason with her!”

“I’m not going to argue with the _queen_!”

“Then I will.” Uther shoves past Arthur and begins addressing the queen as Arthur struggles to keep up.

“Your majesty,” says Uther, voice too polite to be anything less than patronizing. “We would never wish to overstay our welcome, but I’m afraid we cannot leave. Our ship was attacked as we approached the island. My crew is working to repair it, but they estimate three days at the least before we can leave.”

Hunith straightens in her throne. Myrddin leans over to allow her to murmur something in his ear. Her face remains impassive as her son responds, and Arthur’s sure they’re going to spend the rest of the night sleeping on the forest floor.

But a moment later, Myrddin speaks again. Arthur feels the breath leave his body as he translates.

“We can stay.”

~*~

Avalon is more than Arthur could have ever imagined.

The others, save for Uther and Morgause, wander through the market. They’d separated earlier that morning, leaving Arthur with Gwen and Myrddin.

“I just can’t believe we _found_ it!” Gwen’s arm is looped with Arthur’s, and her gesturing jostles him as they walk.

Ahead, Myrddin walks from stall to stall. He’s dressed more casually than the night before—his tunic is a deep purple, and lacks the ornate embroidery—but Arthur sees how the citizens bow as he passes. Myrddin nods, grinning, and asks each seller about their wares.   

“Arthur?” Gwen says, curiously following his gaze. She makes a strange face, and Arthur stops his staring too late. 

“ _Gwen! Arthur!_ ” Myrddin walks over from a nearby stand and carries a small sack slung over his shoulder. “ _I have food for us to eat while I show you around the island_ ,” he says to Arthur, who quickly translates for Gwen. 

She wrinkles her nose as she looks between the two men. Arthur belatedly realizes he should be uncomfortable with how close Myrddin stands and steps away.

“Lance offered to—asked me to meet him someplace later,” she says quickly. “I’ll be with him at…at the place.” She disappears into the crowd of druids.

Bewildered, Myrddin watches her go. “ _I suppose it’s just us,”_ he says, nudging Arthur. “ _We’ll go around the island; I have something I want to show you._ ”

*

They walk from the center of the town until they reach the edge of the forest. Once they’re in the shade of the trees, Arthur relaxes. Trees, at least, are familiar. Myrddin chatters as they walk, and Arthur’s happy he doesn’t have to translate every word while they’re alone.  

“There is a legend in Avalon—oh yes, we have our own legends—that says this forest is enchanted,” Myrddin explains, walking down a steep incline. “Kings come here the day they take the crown and pledge themselves to the land. When they die, their energy is given to Avalon and her people.”

He glances over his shoulder at Arthur. “Or queens, I suppose. My mother had to do it after my father died.”

“How did he die?” Arthur asks. “Was it a battle?”

“Of sorts,” says Myrddin. He stops, waiting for Arthur to catch up. “We’re close.”

“How do you know?” Arthur uncaps his canteen and takes a long drink.

“A forest should never be this still.”

Arthur sees the monuments first. They’re giant, covered in vines and moss. Myrddin shudders noticeably and touches the crystal hanging around his neck. Even Arthur feels uneasy: his mother always warned him against writing off the beliefs of the places they visited.

“Is this what you wanted to show me?” he asks.

Arthur approaches the monuments. The kings are massive, as tall as any building Arthur has ever seen. He squints and slowly reads the runes carved into the side of the stone. “ _Séo Denu Drorencyningas._ ”

“You can read it?” Myrddin stands just behind Arthur, hesitant to get much closer.

“Should I not be able to read it?” asks Arthur, wondering if he’s done something wrong. “I thought you wanted me to read it.”

“It’s the Language of Magic, and only the High Priestesses were allowed the privilege of learning it. There’s a temple nearby, one used by the Priestesses to provide sacrifices to the gods to ensure our survival.” Myrddin frowns. “You shouldn’t know it.”

“My mother taught me when I was growing up.”

“Your mother taught you?”

“Yeah,” Arthur says. Myrddin pushes past him and begins walking between the statues, leaving Arthur to hurry along behind him. “She studied the destruction of Avalon extensively and—“

“It wasn’t—Avalon wasn’t _destroyed_.”

Arthur laughs. “You’re saying that as if you were there.”

“I was,” says Myrddin. “I was only a child.”

“But that would make you over 1,000 years old.”

“I think I’m 1,500, but I lost count around 500.”

“But that’s impossible.” Arthur snorts.

Myrddin looks over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. “Of all the things you’ve seen, my age is what you have trouble with?”

“But you’re attractive—I mean, you’re—" Arthur flushes. “You look good for your age.”

Myrddin laughs at Arthur’s discomfort, but keeps walking until he’s inside a large stone structure overgrown with moss. He waits until Arthur catches up to say, “We know it has something to do with the crystals.”

“May I?”

Arthur reaches forward to peer at the crystal pendant hanging around Myrddin’s neck. It’s warm in his hands and, when his fingers touch it, the crystal briefly flares gold.

“They keep us alive. My father said it was the magic of the land, that the gods were protecting us.”

“Why do you sound so skeptical?” asks Arthur quietly. “Don’t you believe in the gods?”

Myrddin meets Arthur’s gaze, and it takes Arthur everything to stay where he is. “My people wouldn’t be dying if our gods protected us.” Gently, he takes the pendant from between Arthur’s fingers. “I didn’t bring you here to argue,” he says. “I’ve something else to show you.”

It turns out to be a book. Myrddin carries it to a broken altar and opens it. 

“I found this a few years after my father died. It’s in the same language as the carvings on the statues. I’ve never shown it to anyone,” Myrddin says. “Do you think you’ll be able to read it?”

Arthur runs a hand over the cover of the ancient book. He wonders how, in this place, anything could be ancient. “It’s a book of spells,” he says, skimming the page Myrddin has turned to. “This one is a fire spell, I think.”

The pages creak as Arthur turns them. The ink on the page is faded and Arthur has to squint in order to read it. Myrddin leans forward, the dim light of his pendant falling across the page.

“What does this one say?”

“ _Sæstorra_.”

Myrddin repeats the word quietly. In the darkness of the ruins, a small light appears before quickly disappearing.

“Say it again,” says Arthur. “More confidently this time.”

“ _Sæstorra_ ,” Myrddin repeats.

This time, the light is brighter. It hovers near the ceiling like a star and then blinks from existence.

“We have to bring this back. We have to study it! We could change everything!” Arthur closes the book. Quickly, Myrddin rests his hand atop Arthur’s, gripping it before Arthur has a chance to move.

“We can’t tell the others,” he says urgently. “Promise me you won’t tell the others.”

“I promise,” says Arthur.

The words feel too intimate, too much like he’s making Myrddin a promise he shouldn’t, but knows he will, keep. Myrddin doesn’t seem to mind. He grins, tangling his fingers with Arthur’s, and Arthur wills the uneasy feeling in his stomach to disappear.  

It’s an hour later when, flushed and overwhelmed with Myrddin’s hesitant magic, Arthur presses Myrddin against the rough wall beside the altar and kisses him.

Myrddin’s breath catches, and Arthur recoils, horrified with himself.

“Shit,” he says in English. He sits on a low boulder and rakes his hands through his hair. “ _Shit_.”

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. No one was supposed to know. Arthur had always been able to hide it, able to fight it for so long. And now, he’s gone and ruined everything.

“Arthur?” says Myrddin, still leaning against the stone wall. “Is something wrong?”

Myrddin. Myrddin. Stupid, impossible, _beautiful_ Myrddin.

“Did—I didn’t mind,” admits Myrddin. “I don’t mind.”

Arthur looks up at Myrddin, who seems entirely too relaxed. His eyes are bright and he’s sweating in the warmth of the room, but otherwise, he seems perfectly unfazed. If Arthur weren’t so busy worrying about his life being ruined, he would actually be irritated with Myrddin’s ability to be unconcerned after a strange _man_ kisses him.

“You’re not bothered?” asks Arthur. He’s surprised. Homosexuality had never come up in any of his readings. Granted, Arthur hadn’t looked particularly hard, lest someone question his intentions.

“Why would I be?” asks Myrddin, approaching the boulder. He sits beside Arthur, hesitantly, like one would approach a frightened, wounded animal. He doesn’t touch Arthur, and Arthur isn’t sure if it’s for his own sake or Myrddin’s.

“Because it’s wrong,” says Arthur. “Deviant. Disgusting. _Degenerate_ ”

“Is that how love is seen where you’re from?”

Arthur shrugs. “Not all love, no.” _Only mine,_ he wants to say.

“In Avalon, kings have shared their kingdoms with kings. Queens have ruled over their lands with queens. It’s not common, but it’s hardly _deviant_.”

Arthur turns to look at him, to thank him for his kind—if inaccurate—words. But the words, usually so quick to come, so easy to understand, get caught in his throat. Arthur finds himself looking over the sharpness of Myrddin’s cheekbones and the gentle curve of his lips.

Then Myrddin’s lips are pressed hard against Arthur’s, and Arthur is powerless and unwilling to stop it, even as everything in his mind screams at him that this is wrong.

As he pulls Myrddin closer, closer, _closer_ , Arthur is so glad he refused.

*

One year, when Arthur was a child, he found his birthday—or had it been Christmas? They were so close; it was easy to confuse them—gifts beneath his mother’s bed. She bought him exactly what he asked for: a safari cap and a thick book on African wildlife. For days, he kept this secret to himself, giddy and uneasy with the knowledge he outsmarted his _mother_.  

Over dinner, with Myrddin’s ankle pressed against his, Arthur feels similarly as he tells the others about his day. As promised, he keeps what happened in the Valley of the Fallen Kings out of his retelling.

When Hunith stands to excuse herself, Myrddin does the same. He rests a hand between Arthur’s shoulder blades as he pushes in his chair, then leans forward to murmur, “ _Midnight_ ,” into Arthur’s ear before leading his mother from the room.

“Learn anything interesting on your tour?” asks Lancelot. “You were gone a terribly long time.”

Arthur tears his eyes away from Myrddin’s retreating form. Beside Lancelot, Gwen scowls. Gwaine won’t meet Arthur’s eyes, and honestly, Arthur is relieved Uther and Morgause opted out of dinner that night.

“It’s a rather large island,” he says.

“Not that large, mate,” says Gwaine, gesturing with his goblet of apple wine _._

“Arthur was busy making friends with the locals,” Morgana mutters, and Gwaine snorts into his drink.

Arthur is bombarded with images of Myrddin. Of the way Myrddin had looked, kissed out and rumpled, skin flushed with the new magic coursing through him.

“You could say that.” Arthur lays his cutlery on the edge of his plate. “Do we know what our plan of action is? Hunith—the queen, that is—has made it very clear she doesn’t want us here.”

“We’re leaving tomorrow afternoon,” says Lancelot.

“Tomorrow?” repeats Arthur weakly.

“If everything goes according to plan—” Lancelot cuts off with a grunt and reaches down to rub at his shin. Frowning, Arthur stands.

“Excuse me, I have to finish my notes from this afternoon,” he says, and tries not to run from the room.

*

Myrddin stands at the window, arms wrapped protectively around his midsection. The window is opened, and Arthur can smell the smoke of the fires coming from the townspeople’s homes. Arthur tries to close the door quietly, but the sound still breaks Myrddin from his reverie.

“Arthur,” he smiles. “I have the book set up on the rug. It’s by the fire, so we should be warm.” Myrddin’s face falls. “Is something wrong?”

Arthur clutches _The Book of Avalon_ to his chest. Suddenly, he struggles to breathe through the wave of panic coursing through him. It must show on his face, because Myrddin moves forward and gently pulls the book from Arthur’s grasp.  

“You’re leaving,” Myrddin says quietly, moving to set the book on  . It’s not a question.

“Tomorrow,” Arthur manages to say. “Tomorrow afternoon. I don’t—I can’t go back, not after all this.”

“Breathe,” whispers Myrddin. He places his hands on Arthur’s shoulders. “Relax. It will be okay.”

Myrddin gently kisses Arthur, like it’s going to be the last time. _Though_ , thinks Arthur, _it probably will be._ The thought makes Arthur dizzy as he follows Myrddin over to the bed.

He runs his hands up the back of Myrddin’s tunic, feels the movement of muscle under his fingertips as Myrddin’s breath catches. He pushes the fabric up until he’s able to pull it over Myrddin’s head.

There are tattoos decorating Myrddin’s chest, beautiful designs winding down his sides. In the center, just over his heart, lays a triquetra. 

“It’s the symbol of my family,” Myrddin explains when he notices Arthur studying it. “While it can mean many things, for us it represents my mother, my father, and me.”

“And these?” asks Arthur, tapping his fingertips against the other symbols. “Do they mean family as well?”

Myrddin laughs softly, rolling them over to straddle Arthur’s hips. “Do you really want to talk about this now? They are permanent and we have all the time in the world.”

_They haven’t_ , Arthur thinks. They actually have a rather limited amount of time, but that’s a discussion for later. For now, he settles for watching Myrddin step out of his trousers. He figures he can pretend they have time, like Arthur’s pretended he hasn’t wanted this—whatever _this_ is—for almost as long as he can remember.

Myrddin sits beside Arthur on the bed, and Arthur’s afraid — excited, _terrified_ —of what happens next. There’s a moment where he nearly stops, because everything he knows tells him this brilliant, terrifying feeling is wrong. But Myrddin sends a contented smile his way, and Arthur wonders why he was ever afraid.

After that, Arthur becomes lost in the whirlwind of hands and mouths and quiet gasps. Myrddin guides Arthur’s hand down, down, down to wrap around Myrddin’s cock, to press an oil-covered finger into him.

Being with Myrddin is strange, but wonderful. Myrddin straddles Arthur’s hips, cock jutting hard between his legs. Arthur feels as if he is in a dream. He hopes this impossibledream never ends, but he knows it will end too soon.

Later, Arthur kisses his way over each tattoo. Myrddin moans quietly when Arthur kisses the triple spiral tattooed just above his hip. 

“Triple spiral: the symbol of kings,” Myrddin breathes.

“And this?” asks Arthur, moving to kiss his way up the intricate knotwork tattoo decorating Myrddin’s spine.

“Fun.” Myrddin grins cheekily over his shoulder.

And finally, Arthur holds Myrddin close, muffling the sounds of his pleasure against Myrddin’s neck as he comes.

~*~

The following morning, Arthur wakes with Myrddin’s hand resting low against his side. As much as it pains him to move, they can’t be caught like this. They can’t be caught tangled naked together in Myrddin’s bed.

So Arthur dresses quietly, leaves a short note on the pillow beside Myrddin’s head, and slips silently from the room.

When he returns to his room, Hunith is waiting for him. Her eyes remain closed, but despite this, her head turns when Arthur steps into the room.

“Your majesty,” Arthur says, bowing.

“Please, _Cyning Draca_ , there is no need for formalities,” says Hunith before gesturing to the table. “Breakfast has been brought for us. Would you do me the honor of joining me?”

“Of course, your majesty.” Arthur sits.

They talk quietly as they eat. At first, it’s all lighthearted questions about how Arthur’s enjoying the island, his work at home prior to his current excursion, and what he plans to do when he returns.

“You and my son have become rather close these past few days,” Hunith says, smiling kindly, and Arthur’s relieved she can’t see the way he blushes at her words.

“Yes,” he admits. “We have.”

“Did he tell you why I cannot open my eyes?” she asks.

“No, your majesty.”

“It was the night I lost my husband. Myrddin was only a boy at the time, but even he dreams of it. I imagine there are many of us who do.” Hunith smoothes her skirts before continuing, “My Balinor was the king, but he was also a Dragonlord. The land used him as payment for the magic needed to protect our kingdom. A life for a life, I am certain you understand.”

Arthur nods. He knows this, of course. Though _The Book of Avalon_ doesn’t include specific names, the events of Avalon’s downfall are clearly documented.

“The last thing I saw, the image that took my sight, was that of my king being consumed by magic. The image is not one meant for human eyes. The power of it…the pain…I will never forget.” She turns her head toward Arthur. “The last High Priestess died a century ago, but she told me something just before she died: the final thing I will see is a dragon as gold as the summer sun.”

“Your majesty—“

Hunith stands, leans forward to press a gentle kiss to Arthur’s forehead. Arthur’s eyes drift shut as he’s reminded of one of the last moments he had with his mother.  

“Hunith,” he says. He stops, unsure of what he meant to say.

“Promise me you will care for my son, Arthur. Let me have the knowledge my son will be loved and cared for when I am gone.”

Arthur nods, forgetting she can’t see him. When the doors to his chambers latch shut, Arthur feels the sting of tears behind his eyes.

He meant to say goodbye.

*

He wakes an hour later to someone climbing into bed beside him. Arthur makes a confused sound, opening his eyes.  

“Hush,” says Myrddin, “it’s only me.”

Arthur rolls over so they lay face to face. Gently, he runs his thumb over Myrddin’s cheek and watches Myrddin’s eyes flutter closed. “Did you sleep well?” he asks.

“I wasn’t expecting to wake to an empty bed,” mumbles Myrddin. “You’re leaving today. I thought we would have time to…. I have something else to show you.”

They return to The Valley of the Fallen Kings. The journey seems to take longer this time and Arthur knows it’s because neither of them is in a rush to get back.

“Your necklace,” begins Myrddin. He whispers, like he’s afraid to break the suffocating silence of the valley around them. “That ring belongs to a woman, doesn’t it?”

Arthur laughs. “Are you asking if I’ve a wife back home?”

“I didn’t see it until last night; you usually keep it tucked into your shirt. You grip it when you’re afraid,” Myrddin says. “It’s too small to be yours.”

“It’s true. Where I’m from, men and women exchange rings to symbolize marriage,” Arthur says, fishing the ring from where it rests beneath his shirt. “It belonged to my mother. She told me to keep it safe, so I haven’t taken it off since she died.”

Myrddin reaches for Arthur’s hand and interlaces their fingers. He doesn’t laugh when Arthur stumbles over a root at the contact.

The entrance of the cave is so hidden Arthur nearly misses it. It’s only Myrddin’s tug on his hand that keeps him from walking past it completely. When he glances back, confused, Myrddin jerks his head toward the large slab of rock.

“We’ve already seen the forest,” he says.

The crystal around Myrddin’s neck emits a light glow, but it is overwhelmed by the darkness of the cave. Despite the darkness, it seems Myrddin knows where he is going, so Arthur is content to let Myrddin pull him along.

“Are you sure there’s something you wanted to show me, or is this—” Arthur blinks in the sudden light.

Myrddin grins. “You should learn to trust me.”

Arthur nods, mesmerized by the sight before him.

The cave is full of big, gleaming crystals similar to the ones hanging around the necks of every person in Avalon. The crystals throw glimmering light onto every surface, and Arthur wonders how they glow in a cave completely devoid of sunlight.

“What is this place?” he asks.

“It’s The Crystal Cave,” says Myrddin. “My father brought me here when I was young to teach me the responsibilities of the kings and of the Dragonlords.”

“That’s a lot for a child to handle,” says Arthur quietly.

Myrddin shrugs. “It’s not so bad,” he says, taking Arthur’s hand. “It was my duty as a prince. I was proud to do it. This way.”

He leads Arthur to a large pool of water in the center of the cave. The surface ripples slightly, and Arthur somehow knows it ripples with magic, with things that should remain unknown. The pool repulses Arthur. Being so close to it makes his head throb and his stomach turn.

At the same time, he wants so badly to touch it, wants to brush the surface of the water with his fingertips. He reaches forward and is only pulled from his trance when Myrddin tugs on his hand.

“Don’t touch it,” Myrddin says seriously. “It’s the Pool of Neahtid.”

“I don’t know what that is,” Arthur responds, still entranced by the pool. He wants to step closer. Myrddin presses his thumb deliberately against the inside of Arthur’s wrist.

“Before Lady Nimueh’s revolt, the High Priestesses would travel from all around to peer into the crystals,” Myrddin says, pulling Arthur away from the pool. “But they would never touch the Pool of Neahtid. Do you know why?”

Arthur shakes his head. He doesn’t have to wonder how he missed this: the missing pages. He never stopped wondering what those pages contained.

“The Pool is the source of all magic. It’s pure magic, in a way.” Myrddin leads the way past the crystals to the mouth of the cave. “There are very few people who can survive touching it. And the ones who survive are generally driven mad.” Myrddin is silent for a long moment, and then says, “My mother saw it the night my father died. Now, she’s full of pure magic she was never meant to have. It’s killing her and I know it hurts her, but she never shows it.”

“It’s not your fault,” says Arthur. He doesn’t say it the same way others had said it to him after his mother’s death, stiff and uncomfortable and required _._ He runs his hand down Myrddin’s arm until he’s able to take his hand. It’s not enough.

Arthur tilts his head up to kiss Myrddin. The kiss is desperate, for neither of them has forgotten this is Arthur’s last day in Avalon. It’s a rush of hands and quick breaths, of hellos and goodbyes and things unsaid, of grief and happiness and freedom. When it’s over, Arthur feels drained.

Myrddin laughs softly, resting his forehead on Arthur’s shoulder and leaning back against the rocky exterior of the cave. “I don’t want you to go,” he whispers.

“Well, what do we have here?” asks Uther sarcastically. Arthur hears people moving over the gravel pathway to the cave and is gripped with panic.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes, resting his forehead on the cool rock behind Myrddin. Myrddin doesn’t say a word, even as his arms tighten protectively around Arthur’s waist. His hands splay over Arthur’s back and, despite his horror at being caught like this, Arthur finds himself relaxing against Myrddin’s touch.

“We’ve been looking all over for you, Pendragon,” says Morgause’s smooth voice from behind him. “We really should have considered checking the prince’s bed. Be that as it may, it _was_ very helpful of you to lead us here.”

Arthur turns and steps out of Myrddin’s arms. He doesn’t protest when Myrddin quickly grasps his hand and squeezes. “Here? Why would you want to come here?”

“Didn’t he tell you?” asks Uther. “This cave holds all of Avalon’s power, power that can be harnessed and sold to the highest bidder.”

“ _Arthur, what’s going on?_ ” Myrddin asks. Quickly and without turning away from the others, Arthur translates. Myrddin’s outrage is immediate. “ _You can’t take this! It’s the only thing keeping Avalon and her people alive!”_

“The only thing keeping us from it,” says Uther, completely ignoring Myrddin’s outburst as he carefully loads his gun, “is the royal family.”

Keeping his eyes trained on the gun, Arthur positions himself in front of Myrddin. “You are not going to hurt him,” he says.

“You’re not the one holding the gun,” responds Uther smugly. “Anyway, he’s not the one we need.”

He knows he shouldn’t be surprised, but it hurts Arthur to see the others drag Hunith into the clearing. Though, he figures, Hunith isn’t dragged so much as she is led. She walks with her head high, steps sure and determined, despite her lack of sight.

“What are you doing?” Arthur asks angrily, fighting to keep Myrddin from rushing to his mother’s side.

“That little book of yours says a sacrifice is necessary. Who better to sacrifice than the queen?” Uther offers a dark, chilling grin, and pulls three sheets of paper from his pocket. They are folded and torn, but Arthur would recognize that paper anywhere. They’re the missing pages from _The Book of Avalon._

“How did you translate them?” asks Arthur. “I thought—”

“Your notes were more than thorough, Mr. Pendragon,” Morgause says. She moves Hunith to the center of the clearing. Arthur wants to do something, anything, but he’s frozen in place by fear and the need to keep Myrddin safe. Myrddin keeps fighting against Arthur’s grasp, scratching Arthur’s arms, bruising Arthur’s legs.

“ _Let me go! Let me go! You can’t do this!_ ” he shouts.

“ _Myrddin,”_ says Hunith’s ever calm voice. “ _Myrddin,_ _min bearn, bist hæghál”_

And Myrddin stops fighting, tears on his cheeks. When Hunith turns to him, Arthur is ashamed.

She smiles as kindly and beautifully as ever, and slowly, _slowly_ , she opens her eyes. The irises glow a blazing gold, and beside Arthur, Myrddin lets out a sob. Arthur is unsure if Hunith can see, or if the gold obscures her vision, but the stare pierces right through him.

Her smile is heartbroken and peaceful as she blinks back tears, eyes blazing as she holds Arthur’s gaze.

_“Ic i áþsweree,”_ whispers Arthur. Hunith nods and turns away. _I promise._

“Anything else you’d like to say, Your Majesty?” Uther asks. “Or shall we all have a picnic as well?”

“Don’t be rude, Commander,” Morgause chides. “She’s simply saying goodbye.”

“ _My dear Avalon, I willingly give my body and spirit to the land. Protect my people, protect my son, and let my parting be my final gift to you.”_

“ _Myrddin, look at me_ ,” Arthur says urgently. “ _Look at me.”_

Myrddin’s eyes are wet with tears, and Arthur nearly stops everything there. He knows this has to happen. Hunith has given herself willingly to the land.

But it doesn’t make it any less terrible to see Myrddin flinch violently at the gunshot.

It doesn’t make it any less heartbreaking to hold him as he screams out his grief.

And it doesn’t make Arthur any less furious when he sees the averted gazes of the people he had almost considered friends.

“Now,” says Uther, dabbing the scar on his brow with a handkerchief, “if King Emrys would like to show us the way.”

Myrddin turns and, without releasing Arthur’s hand, strides into the cave. If he could see his face, Arthur would think Myrddin was perfectly calm, but Arthur can feel his hand shake. Behind them, Arthur hears the astounded gasps of the others.

“Touch _nothing_ ,” snaps Uther.

“ _Do you trust me Arthur?_ ” murmurs Myrddin.

They’re alone, having outpaced the others as they gawked at the crystals. Arthur sees the Pool behind Myrddin and takes care to focus on the blue of Myrddin’s eyes in the dim light.

“ _Of course._ ”

He says it without thinking. He doesn’t need to think, and that realization frightens him. He met Myrddin less than a week ago, but Arthur knows he would do anything to keep Myrddin safe. He knows he can’t lose this.

“ _I need your mother’s ring_.”

He won’t lose this.

Arthur’s hands shake as he reaches for the clasp of the chain. It sticks a little, but soon—too soon—Arthur feels the thin chain slide from around his neck. As he reaches over to fasten the chain around Myrddin’s neck, his hands have stopped trembling.

As the others stumble through the tunnel behind Uther and Morgause, Myrddin pulls Arthur in for a kiss.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” mutters Uther, disgusted.

“ _Do not forget me_ ,” Myrddin whispers. As he pulls away, he fastens the thin chain holding his crystal around Arthur’s neck. Myrddin turns toward Uther and begins to speak.

“Though it is against my wishes,” Arthur translates quietly, “I have brought you what you seek. Behind me is the Pool of Neahtid, the source of Avalon’s power.”

Arthur trains his eyes on Myrddin, clenches the warm crystal in his fist, and doesn’t look at the way Uther grins.

“Be warned, Uther de Troyes: the magic of Avalon is powerful. The land will reclaim what is rightfully hers.”

Uther scoffs and Myrddin, hardly hesitating at all, plunges his hand into the pool.

With a gust of wind, the cave goes silent. It’s an unnatural silence; too still and too quiet to feel anything but _wrong_.

Arthur has the chance to breathe—one shallow, shaking breath—before the silence breaks.

Something in the cave is roaring. Arthur forces his eyes open to see Myrddin, head thrown back. His mouth is open and his eyes are ablaze, and Arthur realizes the roaring is coming from Myrddin’s mouth.

The sight steals Arthur’s breath. He feels something like longing and it reminds him of how he felt looking into The Pool of Neahtid. More than that, it reminds him of Hunith’s words:

_It’s not an image meant for human eyes_.

Arthur forces himself to look away and tries to block out the sounds of Myrddin’s screams. Then finally, _finally_ , silence falls over the cave. Arthur opens his eyes.

Myrddin’s body glows. Arthur straightens slowly, hand still clenched around the crystal. The sight hurts his eyes, but he can’t turn away. Arthur is terrified.

This creature of pure magic— _god_ is the word Arthur’s mind supplies—is not Myrddin. No, this creature is Emrys. He is eternal and impossible and terrible.

“ _Do not forget me_ ,” says Myrddin’s voice in Arthur’s mind. The creature turns away from him and strides from the room.

“Don’t touch him. Let him pass!” he says as Myrddin glides past. The air around him crackles with energy. “Let him pass!”

Arthur pushes past Uther and the others to walk beside Myrddin. Even if he can’t touch him, Arthur needs Myrddin to know—wherever he is now— he’s close. He needs Myrddin to know he’s safe.

When they reach the mouth of the cave, Arthur sees Myrddin’s eyes—unseeing, gold, and ethereal—fall onto his mother’s lifeless body. An angry wind begins to whip around the clearing. Leaves rip themselves from tree branches and dust swirls above the ground.

“There’s the sorcerer!” shouts a voice.

Arthur backs away instinctively as a crowd of armed men runs toward them. He remembers them from the ship. They were part of the crew, and they had all been pleasant to him. Now, Arthur won’t be able to burn the image of them charging toward him with powerful guns from his mind.

One of the men carries a pair of iron manacles and carefully— _fearfully_ , thinks Arthur angrily—fastens them around Myrddin’s wrists.

The crystal flares hot against Arthur’s chest. He doubles over, clutching at his chest, as it burns his skin. By the time the pain subsides and Arthur is able to straighten up, Myrddin has been corralled into a large iron container.

He rushes forward, but a pair of strong arms wrap around his midsection. Arthur kicks, shouts, and fights, wondering if this is how Myrddin felt, losing someone he loved so much.

“Arthur, stop,” says Lancelot quietly, but forcefully, in Arthur’s ear. “Stop! Look, Uther’s got every one of these men armed. You’ll be killed.”

“I don’t care!” shouts Arthur. “I’ll kill him first! You _fucking_ —you can’t do this!”

“Of course we can,” says Uther, a savage grin on his face. “And you’re going to stand back and watch me.” 

They hook the container up to the back of a truck— _how did they get a_ truck _in here?_ wonders Arthur—before driving away. The crowd of soldiers moves onwards, guns still raised, as Gwen, Morgana, Gwaine, and Morgause follow the convoy obediently. Arthur winces when he hears the crack of tree branches as the truck barrels through the trees.

Lancelot holds him until the guards have disappeared.

“This is all my fault,” murmurs Arthur. He walks over to Hunith’s body. Her eyes are closed and her face is peaceful, but all Arthur can see is her blood soaking into the ground beneath her. He turns away. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You fix it,” offers Lancelot. He urges Arthur to sit and forces a canteen of water into his hand. Scowling, Arthur takes it.

“Why are you still here?” he asks unkindly. “Don’t you have an entire civilization to betray?”

“Obviously not, or I wouldn’t be here.” Lancelot grins, but Arthur can easily tell the grin is forced.

“What about—” _What about Gwen?_ Arthur nearly asks, but an echoing roar drowns his words out. He looks up toward the sky and allows the sound wash over him.

“What is it?” Lancelot wonders as he watches the birds around them take flight at the noise. 

“It’s the sound of Avalon grieving her king,” Arthur says wistfully. He stands, brushing his hands on his trousers. “We should find her. She might have a way to help.”

*

Arthur has never been much of a runner. He’s worked out, sure. He even played a few sports during uni—fencing was his favorite. But since graduating, running and exercise have been the least of his worries. Most of his activity these days consisted of moving artifacts from his basement office or the walk from his flat to the museum and back.

He runs today. His legs burn and he’s certain his side isn’t meant to feel _like that_ , but he runs. He runs through the trees, over streams and rocks and logs. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but he feels as if he’s going the right way. Over the sound of his heavy breathing and his hammering heartbeat, Arthur hears Myrddin’s _do not forget me_ , echoing loudly in his ears.

_This_ , Arthur thinks as he leaps neatly over a fallen log, _is probably going to be the death of me._

“Arthur!” shouts Lancelot from behind him. Arthur skids to a stop.

Bracing his hands on his knees, he gasps, “What? Why did you stop me?”

“We found it.” Lancelot nods ahead, eyes wide. Slowly, Arthur straightens, still gasping for breath.

Before them, at the base of a looming, black tower, stands a white dragon. _The_ white dragon. Her gaze—a striking blue that reminds Arthur of ice-covered lakes—falls onto the pair, and tilting her head back, she roars. The sound echoes around them; Arthur and Lancelot are forced to hastily cover their ears as she lets out her rage and grief at losing her king.

“ _Aithusa._ ” Arthur walks forward. He’s unsure if the shaking is from the jogging or if it’s the fear racing through his body.

“ _Cyning Draca._ ” Aithusa lowers her head in something resembling a bow. Behind him, Arthur hears Lancelot make a disbelieving sound. “ _You have come to us at last_ ,” says the white dragon. 

“ _Something’s happened_ ,” says Arthur.

“ _Yes,”_ Aithusa responds. “ _Avalon’s king has been taken, and with him, the magic of the land._ ”

“ _I don’t know what to do_ ,” Arthur whispers. “ _It’s all my fault._ ”

“ _If it were truly your fault, you would be unable to stand wearing the crystal_ ,” Aithusa says. “ _It is because you wear the crystal that I brought you here.”_

“ _But…what am I supposed to do? What_ can _I do?_ ” Arthur looks hopelessly at the rocky ground. “ _Uther has men and guns_.”

“ _And you have magic and Avalon on your side, Cyning Draca.”_ Aithusa shifts her attention behind Arthur. “ _There is a weapon: the sword Excalibur. It was forged many years ago. Legend says only one man can wield it and that man would come when Avalon most needed him_. _Tell me, Cyning Draca, are you that man?_ ”

Arthur blanches at the thought, but turns to see what Aithusa is focused on.

There stands the most beautiful sword he has ever seen. The gilded hilt and pommel of the sword gleam in the sunlight, and the blade is stuck fast in stone. Arthur walks over as if in a daze, as if the sword calls to him. He reaches out and carefully runs his fingers over the runes engraved into Excalibur’s hilt.

“ _Take me up_ ,” he reads on one side. On the other: “ _Cast me away._ ”

He places his hands around the hilt—cool, despite being in direct sunlight—and tugs.

Nothing happens.

Arthur adjusts his grip and pulls harder, but the blade doesn’t budge. A wave of failure crashes over Arthur and he flushes hot with embarrassment. He tries again, ignoring the sweating of his palms and the anxiety pounding incessantly at his mind. He’s going to lose Myrddin because he can’t pull a sword from a rock. Surely he could use a different sword?

“ _I can’t do it_ ,” he says, defeated, after ten more attempts. Aithusa makes an impatient sound. Beside her, Lancelot startles at the noise.

“ _It is your destiny!_ ” says Aithusa forcefully. Arthur bites back a frustrated retort. He hasn’t got time for _destinies_ when Myrddin is being carried away.

“ _Accept Avalon into your mind, into your heart, and allow her to fill you with her magic and her power. Accept your destiny, Arthur Pendragon!”_ Aithusa says. She almost seems kind when she says it, but Arthur can’t get past the size of her teeth.

Arthur gazes at the hilt jutting from the stone. He wants to argue, but in his heart, he knows Aithusa is right. His entire life has been about studying Avalon. He learned the language and the history; he listened to his mother’s lectures and joined her on her expeditions. When it came time to go to university, he chose the field that would get him closer to the thing he longed to see more than anything in the world.

But he never let himself _know_ Avalon. He never studied the people. He never imagined he would know the way a kings’ symbol looked against a man’s hipbone, or the way blue eyes looked as they were slowly overtaken by gold.

He never imagined he would know the way it feels to give everything up—his job, his _life_ —for a dream he has held since he was a child hiding in his mother’s skirts.

Arthur takes the hilt of the sword into his hands and closes his eyes. He inhales a slow, deep breath—the way his mother told him when she taught him to shoot—and as he exhales, he closes his eyes. He accepts Avalon, _welcomes_ her. When the crystal around his neck warms again, Arthur breathes in once more, and pulls.

The sword slips through the stone like a knife through butter.

Lancelot lets out an excited _whoop!_ of joy as Arthur looks up at the sword. The crystal around his neck glows with the same gold as the magic in Myrddin’s eyes. He knows, then, everything will work. He’ll rescue Myrddin and Avalon will be whole again.

“I can’t believe I just saw a man pull a sword from a boulder,” says Lancelot weakly as he approaches. “I just— _how_?”

“ _Arthur Pendragon’s arrival has been foretold since the beginning of Avalon_.” Aithusa bows as Arthur hastens to translate her words. “ _Come, I will take you where you need to go.”_

*

Arthur has flown only once in his life. His mother took him up in a hot air balloon the afternoon of his seventh birthday. He pressed his face against his mother’s shoulder, frightened of being up so high, and refused for the first half-hour to turn away.

“Arthur,” she laughed, “didn’t you tell me just the other day you’d be the man of the family now that you’re seven years old?”

His mother walked them carefully to the edge of the basket. Arthur turned his head slowly, ignoring the amused sounds coming from the man running the balloon, and, while keeping his grip tight on his mother’s arms, he looked.

_That experience was nothing compared to this,_ Arthur thinks.

Aithusa is a nimble flier. And where the hot air balloon had been relatively steady, Arthur can feel the rise and fall of Aithusa’s wings on either side of him. He can feel the wind whipping past, can feel Lancelot’s tight grip around his waist. Even more, he can feel Excalibur’s scabbard where it sits across his lap. Already, Arthur can see the lake over Aithusa’s head.

“ _Aithusa_ ,” he begins, suddenly remembering _, “I thought there were two dragons_.”

She’s silent for a moment before answering. “ _The red dragon, Kilgharrah, was killed by the sorceress Nimueh the night Avalon fell,”_ she says sorrowfully. “ _He died protecting his king_.”

Aithusa glides over the lake and says no more.

On the shore, Arthur notices a rather large crowd of people. They point up toward the sky as Aithusa descends. She lands with barely a sound on the rocky beach, and the first thing Arthur hears is Morgana’s voice saying:

“King of Dragons, indeed.”

Arthur ungracefully clambers down from Aithusa’s back. “What are you all doing here? Shouldn’t you be off helping Uther?”

“Yeah,” says Gwaine with a shrug. “We all decided he’s a bit of a prick and thought we’d stay behind to help.”

“What—”

“Is that a sword?” asks Gwen suddenly, eyes wide as she pushes to the front. “Where’d you get a sword from? My god, the hilt is beautiful.” Arthur suddenly remembers Gwen was hired on as a blacksmith and wonders if she’s the one who built Myrddin’s prison.

“He pulled it from a rock,” says Lancelot shakily, looking a bit pale. “A bloody _rock_.”

At their astonished faces, Arthur sighs and pulls the sword from its scabbard. The druids gasp collectively and, in a strange shuffle of bodies and weapons, they hasten to kneel at Arthur’s feet.

“ _Oh no,_ ” says Arthur weakly, “ _please don’t. You really don’t have to bow—_ ”

“ _We are yours to command, Cyning Draca_ ,” says the man at the front. He has two wide bands tattooed around his forearms. By the size of him, Arthur figures he’s the leader of the small band of warriors.

_“You can fight? All of you?”_

_“Yes, Cyning Draca, all of us_ , _”_ says the man, head still bowed. _“And we will fight gladly for our king_. _”_

“What are they saying?” whispers Gwen over Arthur’s shoulder.

“They’ve agreed to help us,” Arthur responds. “How far ahead is Uther?”

“I’d expect with that truck, he’s nearly to the sea,” Morgana says grimly. “They moored the ship in shallow water so the truck could get more easily to shore. I wasn’t there for that bit. Elena and Morgause would be able to explain the logistics of it all.”

“I’ll have to ask them when we get back,” says Arthur dryly. “We’ll never be able to catch them on foot.” He runs a hand through his hair and explains the situation to the eager warriors.

_“If you don’t mind,_ ” says Aithusa slowly. “ _I may be able to help_.” When Arthur, in turn, gives her a look that’s on the wrong side of hysterical, she smiles—can _dragons smile_? Arthur wonders—and lets out an earsplitting roar. The druids huddle closer together when the roar is returned in abundance.

The wyverns look like small dragons. Their leathery skin is grey as graphite, and where Aithusa’s eyes are icy blue, the eyes of the wyverns glow a startling red. Arthur is hesitant to look much closer as the flight of wyverns lands on the beach beside them.

Morgana curses loudly and backs up several paces.

“ _The wyverns will not hurt you_ ,” says Aithusa. “ _They agree to act as transport for all those who wish to take up arms for King Emrys_.”

The others climb—warily, in the case of the druid warriors—onto the leather-like backs of the wyverns. Lancelot and Gwen exchange a short, chaste kiss; Arthur looks away, absentmindedly rubbing the crystal hanging from his neck.

“Everyone on?” he asks, before repeating it in the druid tongue. He doesn’t fail to notice there are only enough wyverns for Uther’s former crew and the warriors. He turns to ask Aithusa to call another, but her head is bowed and she is crouched low enough for Arthur to climb onto her back.

*

Uther has already made it to the ship by the time Arthur and the others arrive. Aithusa flies low enough that, if he wished, Arthur could reach down and skim the surface of the water with the tip of Excalibur’s blade. The smell of saltwater assaults his nose and he fights closing his eyes against the spray of the sea.

“They’ve got guns!” calls Gwaine. Arthur glances back.

He’s never led an army—or whatever this is—before, but he’s read a lot about them. It can’t be that hard. Besides, he’s already riding a dragon.

So he raises Excalibur high above his head. “On my mark!” he shouts. Aithusa flies forward until Arthur is at the front of the group. He makes sure he’s visible to everyone before, in a wide, gleaming arc, he lowers Excalibur’s blade.

The wyverns dive. With an excited shout, Morgana leads her wyvern to the front of the group, before descending into a steep dive, gun in hand. Gwaine is right behind her and, behind him, flies Lancelot and Gwen.

“For Emrys!” shouts the head warrior, heavy staff in hand. The others, armed with bows and daggers and swords, let out a cry in response before they too are diving toward the ship.

Arthur directs Aithusa to fly lower in order to find Uther. Even more, he wants to find Myrddin. Anywhere Myrddin is, Arthur knows Uther will be nearby.

“There!” he calls, pointing to the deck. “He’s there!”

Aithusa dives, then darts to the side to avoid the sudden gunfire Uther sends their way. She gives an enraged roar and sends a blasting stream of fire toward Uther.

“I need to be on deck,” says Arthur, mostly to himself. He’s unsurprised when Aithusa flies lower for him to jump neatly onto the deck.

Excalibur is heavier than any fencing sword he used at university, but it’s a comforting weight. The blade is familiar in a way Arthur can’t even begin to understand.

Uther levels his gun at Arthur’s face and gives Arthur a mocking smile.

“I have the gun, Arthur. Surely, you don’t think you’ve a chance with that glorified butter-knife.”

Arthur tightens his grip on Excalibur’s hilt. “But that’d be no fun,” he says with more bravery than he actually feels. “You never seemed the sort to take the easy way out.”

Uther nods, his smile becoming slightly more respectful. “Fair point, Pendragon.” He places his gun in its holster and then pulls out his own sword.

Arthur spins Excalibur and changes his stance. It’s been awhile since he’s done anything even remotely similar to this, but his body responds just as readily as it did then. Uther nods, but doesn’t move. It’s obvious he expects Arthur to strike first.

Arthur swings. The impact of Uther’s blade clashing with his own shakes Arthur to his core and forces him back. Spinning Excalibur again, he focuses on the solid weight in his hand.

He can do this. He _has_ to do this. For Myrddin.

For himself.

“Getting tired, Pendragon?” asks Uther some ten minutes later.

In that time, they’ve barely moved from the bridge. Arthur can hear the shouts of the others around the deck. Aithusa soars overhead and Arthur feels her presence as if she’s right beside him.

“Not at all.” Arthur grins, even as his arms ache. “I could do this all night.”

“You are not going to win, Arthur,” sneers Uther. “And you will die with the knowledge you failed. You will die with the knowledge you were an insult to your dear mother’s memory.”

Arthur’s hand trembles and he’s forced to duck away quickly to avoid Uther’s blade as it swings past his face.

Uther chuckles a low, rumbling, and dark laugh. “How do you think your mother would react to the news her son is a _degenerate?”_

Rage courses like fire through Arthur’s veins and it takes all of his willpower not to let it overwhelm him.

“Tell me, Arthur, did you pay the druid scum, or did he open his legs for you on his own?”

Arthur’s control breaks.

Against his chest, the crystal warms dangerously, and in his hand, Excalibur’s hilt hums. He swings his arm almost unconsciously and soon Uther’s sword clatters to the deck.

Raising his hands in surrender, Uther moves away until his back is pressed against a wall of the ship. In a fluid movement, Arthur cuts the belt holding Uther’s gun and kicks it away.

He presses Excalibur’s blade to Uther’s throat.

“Are you going to kill me, Arthur?” Uther laughs, leaning forward slightly. Arthur sees the kiss of blood where the blade has already pressed too hard.

“Give me the keys,” says Arthur, lowering the sword. “Slowly, or I will kill you where you stand.”

Uther reaches down the front of his tan military uniform shirt, pulls out pair of heavy iron keys, and tugs them from their chain.

Arthur takes the keys before stepping back toward the iron cage. He keeps Excalibur’s blade extended in Uther’s direction as he turns toward Myrddin’s prison.

The first key takes some effort to get into the lock, but with a clanking sound, Arthur is able to turn it. The door is heavy enough that Arthur has to use both hands to pull it open.

He fumbles as he works to unlock the manacles binding Myrddin’s wrists.

Myrddin’s eyes blink open slowly beforehis gaze meets Arthur’s. He struggles in Arthur’s grasp, disoriented and afraid as he fights to remember where he is.

Then finally, _finally_ Myrddin recognizes him.

“ _Arthur?_ ”

“ _Myrddin, you’re—_ ”

The gunshot makes them both jolt in surprise, and Arthur feels an explosion of pain in his side. He staggers, trying to keep himself and Myrddin upright even as his vision blurs.

“ _Arthur?_ ” says Myrddin again, only this time, he’s panicked as he lowers Arthur onto the deck. “ _Arthur, no. No, not you, too! Not—Arthur!”_

The final syllable of Arthur’s name is a roar, and the last thing Arthur sees is the blue of Myrddin’s eyes as they’re flooded with the molten gold of his magic.

~*~

Arthur wakes twice in the next two days.

The first time is while Lancelot is doing something painful and unpleasant to Arthur’s side. He hears Myrddin murmur something and feels warmth envelop him as he drifts back to sleep.

The second time is slightly less traumatizing.

Myrddin is curled beside Arthur, sound asleep. He looks too pale, even in the dark of the room, and Arthur wonders just how much the iron manacles had affected Myrddin. He gently brushes the hair from Myrddin’s forehead and drifts back to sleep.

The next time, Arthur wakes in pain. He groans louder than he intends and feels Myrddin stir beside him.

“Arthur?”

“It’s nothing, Myrddin, I’m fine.”

“You’re lying,” says Myrddin, sitting up. He rests his hand against the bandages wrapped tightly around Arthur’s midsection. Arthur winces and Myrddin lightens his touch.

As if someone has pressed ice to his skin, Arthur’s side cools momentarily before being flooded with warmth. When Myrddin pulls away, the gold is fading from his eyes.

“Better?” he asks. Arthur nods.

“Much,” says Arthur. “You’re alright.”

“You did promise,” says Myrddin.

Arthur sees the glint of his mother’s ring around Myrddin’s neck. “So I did,” he says. They lay in silence for a moment, until Arthur asks, “What happened after—what happened to Uther?”

Myrddin’s expression darkens. He looks away. “Uther is dead.”

“Good,” says Arthur before he can stop himself. Laughing quietly, Myrddin presses a light kiss to Arthur’s lips.

*

The first time Arthur sees Myrddin in his crown—a silver and ornate piece that contrasts with the black of Myrddin’s hair—is the day of Hunith’s funeral. He looks regal at first glance, but when Arthur looks again, he can see the tension in Myrddin’s posture.

Arthur pushes the door to Myrddin’s chambers open further and steps inside, breaking Myrddin from his reverie as he asks, “How do I look?”

He’s dressed similarly to Myrddin, but in red to contrast Myrddin’s blue and silver. He was given a staff to lean on until his side heals, and strangely enough, a gold circlet to adorn his head.

“You look…you look wonderful, Arthur,” Myrddin murmurs, a small smile on his face. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, understandably, and Arthur hates himself for being part of the cause. 

“They sent me up to get you. Everything is ready.”

“Right,” says Myrddin. For a moment he looks boyish, heartbroken, and lost. But just as quickly as it appeared, the expression vanishes behind a carefully constructed mask of bravery.

The funeral is a quiet affair. The druids crowd the rocky beach beside Freya’s lake, and they bow as Arthur and Myrddin walk past. Arthur stands beside Lancelot and the others as Myrddin approaches his mother’s body on his own.

The day is far too nice for such a somber occasion, but for Hunith, Arthur wouldn’t expect anything less.

Hunith rests on a bed of white flowers in a boat made of holly. The wood is light against the dark blue of Hunith’s dress and the brown of her hair. The sweet smell of honeysuckle tickles Arthur’s nose as it drifts past on the warm breeze.

Earlier, one of the druids explained their funeral process to Arthur. It was an ancient tradition, even for them, and one imbued with magic. Hunith’s body, upon discovery, was immediately prepared and preserved until someone was able to finish the ritual. They hoped it would be Myrddin.

Myrddin kneels beside his mother’s body. He lays Hunith’s crystal on her chest, murmurs something, and then stands. He doesn’t say anything else as he walks back to stand beside Arthur, but his eyes are glassy with unshed tears as he turns back to the boat.

His eyes glow gold and the small boat pushes itself from shore.

The water, smooth as glass, ripples as it’s disturbed by the boat. When Myrddin grasps Arthur’s hand, his own trembles, but his voice is firm—if soft—as he murmurs,

“ _Reste in friþ,_ ” and the boat and Hunith’s body are set aflame.

*

Arthur lies with Myrddin for the rest of the afternoon. They keep the thin curtains drawn and the candles unlit, and the room is dark as Myrddin removes his ceremonial clothes and changes into his usual trousers. He locks the crown in his cupboard before climbing into bed beside Arthur.

Carefully, so as not to disturb Arthur’s side, Myrddin lifts Arthur’s shirt over his head. He throws the shirt onto the floor, where it joins his own discarded clothing, and leans down to kiss Arthur.

“Myrddin, I—”

“Your side, I know,” says Myrddin. “I just…thank you for being there today.”

“It was no problem,” says Arthur. He doesn’t remind Myrddin it was partially Arthur’s fault _today_ happened at all.

“It’s weird,” says Myrddin, “I feel I should be more upset, but I’m just relieved her suffering is finally over.” Myrddin pulls the blankets over them. “When you live for 1500 years, you see so much death. There is a lot of life and the beginning wonderful things, but there are far more endings. After a while, you just learn to move on.”

“You won’t miss her?” asks Arthur.

“Of course I’ll miss her,” Myrddin says impatiently, “but she’s everywhere. She’s in her orchards, in the air and the trees. When I look up at the stars, she’ll be there, too.” Myrddin smiles dolefully. “She won’t be here, but she’ll never truly be gone.”

“You’re taking this better than I ever did.”

“Your mother would have been proud of you,” Myrddin says, running his hand over the ring hanging from his neck. “Ygraine Pendragon. It sounds like a name for a queen.”

“She was the heir to a fortune,” Arthur murmurs, focusing his gaze on the ceiling. “My father died a few months before I was born. She was the only woman in her field. Everyone thought she was crazy for attending university. People always told me how much I looked like her.”

“I wish I could have met her.”

 “She would have liked you, I think,” Arthur says after a moment.

“Why?”

“Because you proved rash decisions aren’t always a bad thing.”

“Is that all?” asks Myrddin, slightly amused. “She would like me because I’m impulsive?”

Arthur laughs. “She would like you because you’re funny, and you’re kind, and you’re loyal,” he says. He glances over, meeting Myrddin’s eyes. “And because you make me happy.”

Myrddin’s quiet long enough that Arthur figures Myrddin has fallen asleep. He lets his eyes drift close. It was a long few days for everyone.

“Promise you’ll stay,” Myrddin whispers so softly Arthur could easily pretend he hadn’t heard it.

Instead, Arthur opens his eyes. Myrddin’s eyes are closed, and in the bit of the moonlight streaming from the window, Arthur can see the dark of Myrddin’s eyelashes where they lay against his cheeks. Arthur looks away, returning his gaze to the ceiling as he imagines going home. The idea makes something clench inside him, and he knows he wants to stay—he _has_ to stay. So, just as quietly, Arthur responds,

“I promise.”

~*~

There is very little surprise at breakfast when Arthur announces he’s staying. Gwen looks sad; Lancelot shrugs, but the smile on his face is genuine; Arthur’s sure he sees Morgana begrudgingly press a wad of money into Gwaine’s palm.

Of all of them, Arthur thinks he’ll miss Lancelot the most.

Myrddin supports Arthur as they walk down to Freya’s lake where Aithusa is waiting to take them to the sea. The sun is warm on Arthur’s skin and the wind smells of apple blossoms. Morgana laughs, more carefree than Arthur has ever heard her, as Aithusa swoops through the sky and lands gently on the seashore.

“I’ll miss you,” says Gwen, throwing her arms around Arthur’s neck. She kisses his cheek and then, blushing, does the same to Myrddin. “Er, _thank you_ ,” she says clumsily. Myrddin’s eyes widen slightly in surprise, but he smiles and pulls her in for another hug.

Under different circumstances, Arthur thinks they might have been friends.

“You’re sure you want to stay,” says Lancelot as Gwaine prepares the smaller boat taking them back to the ship. “You don’t want to tell the world about Avalon?”

“I wouldn’t tell anyone about Avalon even if I were going back,” Arthur says, “even if it meant I was the laughing stock of the field. Look at what we did to these people, Lancelot. I can’t imagine what would happen if the general public found this place… they’d probably build a hotel.”

“I suppose you’re right. We are contractually obligated to tell Gaius about this, you know.”

“Gaius was the only person everyone believed to be crazier than my mother.” Arthur shrugs. Lancelot laughs.

“Everything’s loaded up,” Gwaine announces, brushing the sand from his trousers. “Are you ready?”

“Wait,” says Arthur. He pulls a small package from his pocket and hands it to Lancelot. “Give this to Gaius for me, please?”

Lancelot holds the parcel in his hands and nods. “It was an honor to know you, Arthur Pendragon,” he says. Without another word, he walks toward the boat.

And, standing together hand in hand, Arthur and Myrddin watch until the ship disappears against the horizon.

~*~

_Epilogue_

Old and alone in his house in London, Gaius sits in his favorite armchair by the fire. His head aches as he thinks of the past few weeks.

The trip he funded would be presented to those who asked as a failure. He assured his crew weaved together a believable story to explain the disappearances of Commander de Troyes, Morgause Lothian, and Arthur Pendragon.

A storm, they decided. A storm came from nowhere and blew their ship off course. By the time everything calmed, Arthur and the others were nowhere to be seen.  

But Gaius knows better.

On his lap rests a book, a crystal, and a photograph of a smiling young man with his beautiful mother standing amongst a herd of elephants. 

**Author's Note:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I own none of these characters and suing would be a colossal waste of time and resources.


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